by C. J. Sansom
‘Hard times,’ he said. ‘Hard times.’
A thought struck me. ‘You will remember Richard III’s seizure of the throne after King Edward V died. The disappearance of the Princes in the Tower?’
He nodded. ‘Ah, yes.’
‘When Richard took the throne, rumours were put about that his brother Edward IV’s marriage was invalid.’ I hesitated. ‘And was there not something about King Edward’s own legitimacy?’ I looked at Brother Swann keenly. Giles had been little more than a boy in 1483, but this ancient would already have been a man of almost thirty.
Brother Swann was silent, turning to look into the fire. The wind drew the yellow flames up the chimney with a faint roar. I wondered if he had forgotten me, but then he turned back to me with a smile.
‘That is a matter no one has spoken of for many years. Many years.’
‘I am something of an antiquarian. Like my friend from York. He was telling me about the rumours, about King Edward.’ I felt guilty, lying to the old man, but I wanted to know what he remembered.
Brother Swann smiled. ‘It was an interesting story. How much of it was true no one knows, nor ever will for the King’s father suppressed all talk of it.’
‘Yes, I heard.’
He looked at me. ‘Edward’s mother, Cecily Neville, she made the claim after Edward died. She said in public that Edward IV’s father had not been the late Duke of York, her husband. She said Edward was illegitimate, the son of a liaison she had with an archer, when they were in France during the wars.’
My heart started beating fast.
‘That made a mighty stir,’ the old man said softly. He paused and wrapped his cloak around himself. ‘There is a bitter draught from that window. This wind nearly blew me off my feet on my way here. I remember the gale of 1460…’
I controlled my impatience. ‘Yes, you told me. But you were talking of Cecily Neville -’
‘Ah, yes. Cecily Neville stood up outside St Paul’s – I think it was St Paul’s – and told the world that Edward IV was the offspring of a liaison between her and an archer. A lawyer came up here from London on a case shortly after, he told me all about it.’
‘Do you remember the archer’s name?’
‘Blaybourne. Edward Blaybourne, a Kentish archer.’
The blood was thudding in my ears. ‘What happened to him?’
‘I think he must have been dead by the time of Richard III’s usurpation. The liaison had been forty years before, after all.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘Perhaps he was done away with.’
‘So there was no real evidence for the story?’
‘Not that I know of. As I said, it was hushed up after the Tudors came to the throne. For Henry VII married Edward IV’s daughter, the present King’s mother. There was an Act of Richard’s -’
‘The Titulus Regulus.’
‘You know of that?’ He looked at me with sudden concern. ‘I am not sure we should be talking of such things, even now. I have not thought of it for years.’
‘You must be one of the few who remember it.’
‘Yes. Not many reach eighty-six,’ he said proudly. ‘But it was only rumour, even then.’
I got up suddenly. ‘Sir, I have just remembered something. I was so interested in our talk, I forgot I have an appointment.’
Brother Swann looked disappointed. ‘Must you go so soon?’
‘I fear so.’
‘Well, perhaps I shall see you again. I am often here in the mornings, by Brother Davies’s good fire.’ He looked at me, sudden sadness in his eyes. ‘He indulges me. I know I talk too much and distract people. But you see, sir, all my contemporaries are dead.’
I took his hand, thin and light as a bird’s claw, and pressed it. ‘You have a store of memories to be proud of, brother. Thank you.’ And with that I went out. My head was in a mighty whirl.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I WALKED RAPIDLY BACK through Hull, my head down against the buffeting wind. My mind was racing, making calculations, connections.
So I had been right all along when I hazarded to Barak that Edward IV might have been illegitimate, and Blaybourne his father. But Blaybourne had not been done away with as old Brother Swann surmised; he had survived to write a confession on his deathbed. I remembered those few words I had read, in that rough uneducated hand: ‘This is the true confession of me, Edward Blaybourne, that I make in contemplation of death, that the world may know of my great sin…’ He must have died before 1483, when old Cecily Neville made her announcement, or, as Brother Swann had said, surely she would have produced him as evidence of her claim.
And in the Tower, back in April after the conspiracy was discovered, someone had confessed on the rack to the existence of those papers, but had not known where they were nor who had them. The conspirators’ policy of limiting information to those who needed to know had served them well. Bernard Locke, taken to the Tower, did know that Oldroyd had the papers, but ironically they had feared to torture him because he had connections and because the evidence against him was thin. Meanwhile they had arrested Broderick. My guess was that he did know something about the papers, but they had been unable to get him to talk in York and decided to bring him south.
And what of the other documents in that box? Probably more evidence about Blaybourne, to support his claim. Like the Titulus. And that family tree was a sort of aide-memoire. I asked myself who knew about the Blaybourne story now. The King and the Privy Council would have known for months. When I told Maleverer that Oldroyd had spoken the name Blaybourne before he had died, he had taken it to the Duke of Suffolk. The Duke knew what that name meant. He would have told Maleverer then. That explained his saying that it all went back to Cecily Neville. I remembered the rest of Oldroyd’s words: ‘No child of Henry and Catherine Howard can ever be true heir. She knows.’ I stopped dead in the street. Of course. He meant no child of theirs could be true heir, not because a child of Catherine Howard’s might be Culpeper’s, but because Henry was the grandson of an archer. And when he said, ‘She knows,’ he had meant Jennet Marlin, who had just knocked him off his ladder. ‘This is not about Catherine Howard at all,’ I said aloud.
IN OUR ROOM AT the inn Barak was stumping around; he had abandoned his stick, too soon in my opinion, and was limping around the chamber, wincing as he put his foot to the floor.
‘Be careful,’ I said.
‘It’s all right if I put only a little weight on it!’ He took a step forward, winced again and sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Fuck it!’
‘Jack,’ I said, sitting on my own bed next to his, ‘I have found something out.’
‘What?’ There was irritation in his tone, but when I told him what Brother Swann had told me, and of what I had deduced on the way back, he whistled.
‘Jesu.’ He was silent a moment, letting it all sink in, then he looked at me. ‘So it’s true, the King is truly the grandson of a Kentish archer.’
‘That’s how it looks.’
His eyes were wide. ‘And the King knows – he’ll have known since the existence of these papers came out.’
‘And will have been told I found the papers, and lost them. No wonder he wanted to hurt me at Fulford. And no wonder the rebels were desperate to get those documents, if Blaybourne’s confession is in there.’
‘Yet Bernard Locke wanted Jennet Marlin to destroy them, to save his skin.’
‘Yes. It’s an irony.’
‘But how the hell did that confession get from Blaybourne in Kent, assuming that’s where he went back to, into the hands of the Yorkshire rebels? And if it’s – what – over sixty years old, why only use it now? Why not during the Pilgrimage of Grace five years ago?’
I stroked my chin. ‘Robert Aske and the commons did not want to overthrow the King then, only Cromwell and Cranmer. And maybe they did not have the papers then.’
He looked at me keenly. ‘So you think this has nothing to do with Catherine Howard and Culpeper at all?’
‘No. Th
e fact that Jennet Marlin killed him certainly puts a new light on Oldroyd’s words. When he said, “She knows,” I think he meant Jennet Marlin.’
He heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Then we’re in the clear. Tammy will be mightily relieved when I tell her.’ He thought a moment. ‘Will you tell Maleverer what the old lawyer said?’
‘There’s no point. He knows about Blaybourne already. No, there is no reason to do anything. We can forget about it, and about Catherine Howard, and go home.’ I shook my head. ‘Taking two dangerous secrets with us, about Blaybourne and the Queen. But we must keep our mouths shut.’
‘I wonder if the conspirators have those papers now.’
‘Who knows?’ I waved a hand. ‘If so, let them do what they will, let them print a thousand copies of Blaybourne’s confession and post them round the streets of York and London. I do not care any more.’
‘You could perhaps tell Cranmer what you suspect about Jennet Marlin never having the papers,’ he mused. ‘It might be of some help to them in unravelling the conspiracy.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You should do it.’
‘I’ll think on it,’ I repeated irritably. I realized that despite the fact they were mostly papists, part of me was with the conspirators. ‘Anyway, Jesu knows when we’ll get back,’ I added, nodding at the window. It had started raining again, a high wind blowing big drops against the pane.
‘We’ll get there eventually, I suppose. Back to Lincoln’s Inn.’
I looked at him. ‘You are still coming back to work with me? You haven’t changed your mind?’
He nodded. ‘I still want to come back. It’s time to settle down. I shall be seeing Tammy,’ he added, giving me a challenging look.
I hesitated. ‘I know she still blames me in some way for that woman’s death. Oh, she is making herself friendly again, it would not do to make an enemy of the man who employs you, but I can see she still blames me. It is not fair.’
Barak looked uncomfortable. ‘Tammy finds it hard to accept Jennet Marlin is dead. She knows you are not to blame, but – women are illogical.’
I grunted. ‘Tamasin can be clever enough when it suits her. Like faking that robbery. Like making up to me now, because she knows on which side her bread is buttered.’ I wondered whether to tell him about the rosary, but thought, he will only believe the story that she has it because it was her grandmother’s. True or not, he will take her side, for that is what people in love do.
He was frowning at me. ‘Tammy has been in tears many nights since Jennet Marlin died. I wish she’d curse the woman as she deserved, but she won’t. Between that and her worry over the Queen and Culpeper, she is finding things hard.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It seems when we return to London I must get used to her ways.’
‘Yes,’ he answered boldly, then added quietly, ‘You know what your trouble is?’
‘What?’
‘You don’t understand women. Normal women, ordinary feminine women. when you do like a woman, it’s some fierce malapert creature like Lady Honor last year -’
I stood up. ‘I wonder how much you understand. Tamasin seems to have you wrapped round her little finger, which is a thing I thought I would never see.’ I wished as soon as I said it that I had not spoken; apart from anything else, we were both fractious from being cooped up together.
Barak’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what your other problem is? You’re jealous. Jealous of what Tammy and I have. Perhaps you need to find another fine lady to moon over.’
I stood up. ‘You have said enough!’
‘Hit a nerve, have I?’ he asked sardonically. ‘I am going to see Master Wrenne.’ I walked out, slamming the door like a silly child.
RELATIONS BETWEEN BARAK and me remained strained over the following days. The weather continued windy with hard blustery showers, the wind still from the southeast so there was no question of setting sail. The innkeeper grumbled that if this went on, Hull would be ruined for lack of trade. Tamasin was cool with me again. Barak had probably told her of our quarrel; I wondered if she had told him about the rosary.
I was glad, though, that under this regime of enforced rest Giles’s health had remained stable, though sometimes I sensed from his drawn expression that he was in pain. I spent much time with him, exchanging stories of our time in the law, and he told me much of life in York and the town’s decline during his lifetime. I understood more and more how the north had been neglected and oppressed under the Tudors. I knew that, short as our acquaintance had been, when Giles died it would be like the loss of my father over again. But I would be with him at the end, I had decided, even if it meant coming back to York with him after he had visited London.
The Progress, meanwhile, had left Hull. On the fourth of October there had been a break in the weather; even some watery sunshine, the first we had seen in that place. Word went round that the Progress would be crossing the Humber next day, on the first leg of the long journey home. Giles and I walked down to the shore of the great estuary and watched as hundreds of boats ferried the vast retinue across the river to Barton on the Lincolnshire shore. It went on for hours. Boats must have been brought from all over Yorkshire, the water was thick with white sails.
As we walked back to the town it felt strange, empty. The Progress seemed to have been the centre of my life for so long that it was hard to realize that, so far as I was concerned, it was over. I felt a great relief, an uplifting of my heart, not least because every day that passed took King Henry and Queen Catherine another few miles further away. And Dereham and Culpeper and Lady Rochford too – I would never have to see any of them again. The Queen’s secret would probably not be discovered now; she and Culpeper had had a nasty scare and I doubted she would see him again. That just left Rich to deal with in London, over the Bealknap case. And I was feeling more confident about that, almost looking forward to it.
THE RAIN AND GALES returned the evening the Progress left, and the weather did not change for another ten days. Not until the fifteenth of October, when we had been there a fortnight, did I realize, walking back from Brother Davies’s library, that there had been no wind or rain to speak of for two days. I had spent much of my time talking with, or rather listening to, old Brother Swann. Perhaps now at last we might set sail. I thought of Broderick. He had been two weeks in Hull gaol, and I wondered how he fared.
That night when I returned to the inn I found a message to go to the King’s house, where Maleverer wished to see me. So he had not returned to York yet. Wondering anxiously what he wanted now, I went round at once. The old de la Pole family mansion was an enormous courtyard house, the finest building in the city. I was led to Maleverer’s latest office at the back of the building. As always, his room was dominated by a large desk covered with documents; the image he set forth was ever that of the indispensable official.
He studied me with that heavy, stony look of his, twirling a quill in his big hand. ‘Well, Master Shardlake,’ he said abruptly. ‘The waiting is over. We set sail tomorrow. The sea has been pronounced safe at last. The way things have turned out, we might have been better riding after all, but we never knew when the weather would end.’
‘And you said you are going to London too, Sir William?’
‘Yes. I have to account for what happened in York, as well as deal with certain property purchases.’
‘I see.’ And Rich blackmailed Craike so you could have them cheaply, I thought.
‘Be at the dock tomorrow at ten. You and Barak, the Reedbourne girl and that old man who goes with you. Your little entourage.’
‘We shall be there.’
‘I may need to call you for questioning in London, about Mistress Marlin. Your horses will be taken back to London by road.’
So maybe it is not over yet, I thought.
‘How long will the voyage take, Sir William?’
‘Depends on the weather. Less than a week, if it holds. We will still be home before the King.’
‘Well enough. I’ve had some good fare taken to him and told him if he didn’t eat he’d be fed forcibly with a tube down his throat. He’s fattening up nicely, like a Christmas fowl.’ He smiled, a slash of white in his black beard. ‘By the way, I have had a letter by a fast rider from London. Bernard Locke has confessed. He confirmed Jennet Marlin was working on his instructions.’
‘How did he get her to do it?’ I asked quietly.
Maleverer shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘Apparently she was besotted with him. It was as she told you, he knew there was a box containing papers that could do damage to the King. He told her to find it, if need be kill anyone who stood in the way. He admitted he told her to get the box but to destroy it, not bring it back to London to give to a conspirator there, which is what Locke had been instructed to do if the northern rising failed. He told her he had repented, but he admitted in the Tower that it was to save his own skin.’
‘I see,’ I said neutrally.
‘Apparently there was a letter among the papers authorizing Oldroyd to give them up to Locke if he called, giving a description of him. To Locke, not a woman. That was why Jennet Marlin had to kill Oldroyd to get the box, and that was why the box incriminated Locke.’
‘Did he…’ The question stuck in my throat for a moment as I thought of how the answer would have been obtained. ‘Did he give the names of any other conspirators?’
‘No. That’s where the bastards have been clever. I told you before how well they were organized: in cells, no one person knowing more names than he needed. And Locke wasn’t told what else was in the box either, only that it contained important papers. His contact in London was one of the rebels who escaped – he’s probably in Scotland now, helping King James plan trouble for us. Locke was supposed to have given the box to someone else, a fellow barrister who would make himself known to him.’
‘From Gray’s Inn?’
‘He didn’t know who. I believe him.’ He set his mouth hard. ‘But we’ll find him, if we have to have every lawyer from the north brought to the Tower.’ Wrenne’s nephew, I thought with sudden alarm.